


Nascosto

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A remote town, a lonely Krycek & an inquisitive visitor who stumbles across something best left alone.





	Nascosto

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Nascosto by lush virtues

Title - Nascosto  
Author - lush virtues  
Status - Series / WIP  
Rating - R for violence  
Disclaimer - CC etc.  
Warnings - A smidging of blood & violence, but only as a means to eventual comfort. Some people may be squicked apparently ;-)  
Archive - of course just let me know where.  
Feedback -   
Spoilers - everything I guess. This is post Existence.  
Notes - Thanks to Bertina, my tireless beta for putting things where they belong. One day I'll learn. To Ian, needs no explanation. To Adam, he knows why <g>. And distant thanks to Muse, for feeding me through this. This one's for Katharine, my fellow fag hag. Words are sometimes not enough.  
Summary - A remote town, a lonely Krycek & an inquisitive visitor who stumbles across something best left alone.

* * *

Nascosto - Chapter One

It's quiet here. I like quiet. You wouldn't normally think that even the darkest rooms could have a speck of natural light. A crack, maybe just a glint. It always finds its way through. It's a world away from the life I knew, the one I had come to depend on, the one I had become accustomed to.

It's comfortable here - never hurried, never pushy. Everyone knows each other; we all have history, although I've never been intrusive. If they know what went on before my arrival here then fine, but they won't get it by asking me. That's an unwritten law that comes about I guess from the type of people we all are. Never give up your hand to the table. It's often better without words.

Nascosto is my refuge now, my haven. It shelters me from the dark incessant glare of the eyes that were everywhere I went. I wasn't to know when I pushed the old man down the stairs that my act of defiance, of hatred towards him, would elevate me in the eyes of those that remained. There were a few left after the torching, only junior members who hadn't been invited to the party. CSM remained at the helm, an antagonist to their new order, such that it was. I would still have done it, even if they had asked me to -but they didn't. I was sweet for revenge, for retribution. Mulder was gone and a part of me had twisted the knife, guided by the demonic hands of Satan himself.

The tension, when Mulder last saw me enter his office, was rehearsed. That much was obvious - to me at least. A lesser man would not have known. An ill fated attempt to get into the arms of the surly AD? It could have been. If he had really wanted vengeance then he would have fought a bit more to get it. His weak struggle was no more than paying lip service to the others in the room. The heat I felt as we stood side by side at the table told me all I needed to know. The best moments between us were always in silence. In tension. In looks.

The remaining consortium members owed me nothing for the old man. I had taken an eye for an eye. CSM for Mulder. It was simple. When they offered me work and a refuge for my sins it didn't take long to decide. I got weary of running, of hiding, of being incarcerated. With no incentive to hang round in DC their offer was quickly accepted.

I've been here a few months now. Chipping away at myself. Slowing down. Facing up to what I have become. It is not a permanent state of mind, because I never used to be like this. Maybe with some time here I can recapture a part of my life, just enough of it so that I am no longer owned. Call it semi-retirement if you will. Maybe its rehab. It feels good whatever.

Today I am shuttling, driving at leisure to stock up. Someone has to do it in a remote location like this and this week its me. It's the first time I've been out of Nascosto since arriving -but it's been good. Open road and sunshine - the best. I drive back the hundred or so miles at a leisurely pace. There's no fire here, no deadlines. It feels good and I dream as I drive. Lost in thought. I try not to think of Mulder too much these days, but when you loose someone its hard not to muse. The last chance to say goodbye. Unexpressed dialogue fills your mind. The words are repeated over and over, tweaked, changed, replaced with others, its a vicious circle and there is never conclusion because the words will never be heard. The passing of time has little effect because we never get the chance to say those words. I'm no different. I just wish we had rebuilt our bridges and not have allowed something so trivial to come between us. Now that he's back amongst the living those months spent procrastinating seem trivial. But at the time, they were my life.

Some days I think about it more than others. Today is one of those days. In some ways it makes me mellow. It makes me smile, because at least I have memories. At least now he's free of The Bureau and the constraints imposed upon him. And we may meet up. Another time, another place. I've practiced what I'll say when I see him again a thousand times over but I know it will never come to that. We will just look at each other and know. We always do.

When I approach town, the first thing I notice is the strange car, there are no new residents scheduled. Everyone would know if there were. It's difficult to find this place by accident. It is 2 miles to the nearest road, 100 miles away from the nearest populated territory in all directions and it's never appeared on any map. It just exists.

We had a middle aged couple stumble across it 3 months ago in their RV but like most of the others before them they just passed on through. No hotels or restaurants are enough to make them leave quickly. They never suspect a thing. To the untrained eye this is just a small remote community. Two shops and a bar and a few sparsely scattered farms. The owner of the car is probably in the convenience store browsing the shelves under Alfie's watchful eye. Alfie will look for signs but there's rarely need to worry.

I head past and look into the shop on the way. I can't see anyone about so they're probably in the bar taking a beer before leaving. There's no one on the street either; most people will be at home after working during the day. Those on the late shift will be wherever they're assigned.

After dropping the supplies in the storage barn, I head home. An outbuilding attached to the third farm has been my abode since arriving here. From the outside it is an old barn, the central doors are left open most of the time to reveal a stack of hay that is turned occasionally. The door towards the back hangs precariously on ancient hinges belying the technological revolution that lies behind. If you saw it from the road you wouldn't bat an eyelid.

My apartment is housed in the roof of the barn; a wondrous high tech bachelor pad kitted out with every convenience I could want. Chrome fixtures and fittings, a basic uncluttered existence that is more akin to an ICU. It was like this when I got here and I've not found it wanting in any way. From here I see all that goes on in the world. My office, like the others here, is fitted with surveillance equipment the Russians would kill for. Feeds into every satellite channel, hell - even the interior offices of the Whitehouse are available. Most of my work here involves translating. It can be dull but it's different from what I've done before. I get intercepted email and diplomatic papers sometimes, other times it's just straight surveillance and logging. It varies from day to day, which keeps me interested, and I get to know what's going on everywhere.

I take a beer from the fridge and sit back to take a look at the stranger in town, that's if they haven't shot through in the last five minutes. But no, the car's still there and no sign of anyone in either shop so I switch monitors to the bar. Sure enough there's movement but it isn't what I'd expected.

Jack, the barman this week, stands with his back to the camera - a baseball bat hanging from his right hand and in an instant I know there's been trouble. The thing with Nascosto is that strangers who pass through are lucky, their fate is in their own hands. Stop to ask questions and you live to regret it. That's if you live.

A covert community can't afford inquisitors of any kind. We take no chances. Depending on who visits, there are only two ways they are dealt with. Some are killed straight away. A bullet to the skull is all it takes. It's quick and effective. If there are reasons for them to be kept alive then they are beaten and taken in their own car to within 30 miles of the nearest town where an ambulance is called. They are left in the back seat whilst we remove trace evidence and leave the scene.

It's only happened twice in five years though. They make the choice of life or death with the question they ask or keep to themselves. Clearing up is left to the individuals who carry out the deed. We've all done it before elsewhere, we know the drill. There's never a fuss - it would interfere with other work if we became needlessly involved.

But today is different. As I sip my beer and watch the screens in silence, the intercom buzzes. It is Jack.

"Krycek, you there?"

I tell him I am.

"Then get down here," he snaps, apparently angered by something.

I make my way back out of the barn and drive the half mile to the bar. The street is deserted and I know that most people will be watching the events unfold on their screens. I walk into the bar. It is dark but doesn't smell of smoke as most bars do. There's precious few people that smoke in this place. Crazy to think that they'd worry about lung cancer with the lives they've lead, but they do.

At the far end of the bar Jack stands with his back to me, the baseball bat still hangs from his hand, and as I walk towards him, I see that there is blood on it.

There are numerous ways to maim but the baseball bat is one of the more venomous. Used in skilled hands you can drag someone to the brink of death with well tuned prods and swings. Just one blow to the head will kill and the evidence is easily burned. Couple that with the fact that it can be legally owned and you'll see why it's a weapon of choice for so many hardened criminals.

Jack's accomplice here is Alfie; work like this is always completed with a partner. The store is next door, so it's no surprise. On the floor in front of them a pair of boots point towards me. They look like Timberlands, but its not until I get closer that I am sure. Jack turns to me and throws a wallet over.

"Alfie said the old school and you have got history with this guy." His voice is impassive, it feels slightly dismissive. No one gets emotional about these things. We're all used to them. I catch the wallet and balance it against my prosthetic hand, tugging at the drivers' licence inside. My heart skips a beat.

I walk past Jack and stare down, my eyes taking in nothing of the surroundings. The world around me blurs, and for what seems like an eternity, the only thing in my life is the body spread out across the floor.

His legs are slightly splayed; it looks like he was curled up from the blood on the back of his jeans. It is not drawn from his legs but embedded in the denim, a pattern that tells of maybe two or three strikes with the wood. Specks of blood adorn the back of his T Shirt. Again, not a great deal and I suspect from the dirt mixed in with it, that the blood is off the floor rather than from any wound on his back. It smears across the cotton in patterns that suggest he has been on his back moving around. Trying to back away from his assailants I would guess, before curling up like a baby to protect himself once escape was beyond him.

To the right of his torso lies a mixture of flesh and bone, both visible, each entwined with the other. Pulped flesh with remnants of bone at the surface. The main break in the radius, or maybe it's the ulna - its difficult to tell - has splintered the bone as it pushed its way through the skin. The sharp razor edge of the break points towards his chest, the lower half of the arm looks to be connected by flesh alone. Blood pools on the floor beneath the wound but it is probably not life threatening. I've come to learn these things. Breaks usually look worse than they really are. I have seen monstrosities of injuries, and blood doesn't phase me. But breaks do. You know that they don't kill, but just the sight of bones at unnatrual angles throws me.

Each breath I take is slow and measured. I feel each exhalation leave my lungs and linger before the next is taken. My heart races as I allow my eyes to drift towards his head. Even though only one side of his face is visible I know he has suffered. Blood trickles from the nostrils, a slow scarlet flow that passes over a fattened lip into droplets and onto the wooden floor beneath. It has started to congeal between his lips, parted slightly, moving with each rasping breath. His chest wheezes with each rise and fall of the ribcage - a slow labored movement that I know is painful. I don't need his eyes to be open to know.

I stand momentarily numbed by the sight, unable to move, to speak. Of all the places in the world, of each segment of life in each remote community - why the fuck did you end up here Mulder?

I want to cradle him, to hold him and gather together his fragile broken body and hold it close to me. Forever. I want to stroke his bruised face and wipe the blood from that nose and from the lip that even whilst split eats deep into my soul and pouts unknowingly for my benefit. But in this world I can't move to do any of these things.

I am frozen where I stand and look down wondering how I ever allowed myself to be a part of it.

"You know him?" Jack asks. The words snap me back from my reverie and I nod.

"Yeah." I know what's coming next.

"This has to be taken care of Krycek."

There is a long silence. I bend at the knees and feel his neck for a pulse. It's not the strongest I've felt but its there and it has consistency. I run a finger along his lips and part his mouth further so that he does not choke on his own blood. As I do this, he coughs, spluttering a mix of blood and saliva onto my hand from deep within his mouth. There is a throaty groan, barely audible to the others but it vibrates through my body as he exhales warm air onto my skin. It's been a long time.

Alfie and Jack stand watching the interaction, waiting patiently for a response from me. This is their mess to clear up and they seem agitated by the intrusion into their quiet lives. If our roles were reversed, I know I would be.

"I'll take care of it Jack," I reply. It sounds like an offer but Jack and Alfie both know it's not. Its direction. I'm taking over their mess and they're probably grateful for the intervention. I want to know what he said to them but it will have to wait. I need their help right now because Mulder isn't going anywhere without them and I know that they are going to be irate when I tell them how I plan to clear this up.

"Get me something to fix his arm with Alfie." It is matter of fact, and spoken without looking up. I have to be remote; detachment is all that will get me through. I'm still the new boy here and I can't afford to slip up.

"Don't be fucking stupid." Alfie moves towards me and I stand to meet him, protective of the body behind me. His eyes are dark, questioning, but I give nothing away. I meet his gaze head on and offer my darkest eyes to him.

"I'm taking him back to my place." My words are met with silence. "Alfie, please would you get something to fix his arm with?"

Alfie walks through the front entrance to the bar, and I'm half expecting other residents to push past him on the way, and attempt to stall me in my madness. But they don't.

"Jack, you're going to have to put him in the truck and come back with us." In my prime I would have scooped and cradled Mulder with tender care, but those days are gone. Plastic adds a little normality, aesthetically, but it has no value when it comes to lifting a body. I'm used to it now. You readjust to these things.

Jack turns to the nearest camera and stares into it. He's hoping that someone will put a stop to what is happening but there is no intervention.

"Jack, I can't lift him myself. Just put him in the truck, take him out at the other end and you can drive back here. I'll come and fetch the truck tomorrow." He turns back to me and eventually nods.

"Krycek, you're going to need to clear this."

"I will. Just as soon as he's out of here." And I will, because I've grown used to this place and feel like the sanctity here can keep me in its grip forever.

When Alfie returns, he clutches three lengths of wood from the hardware yard and a reel of duct tape. He doesn't stop and offer them to me but gets on his knees and starts making a course splint around Mulder's arm. Although not fully conscious, Mulder's reaction is one of pure vociferous terror. His face is turned away from the arm, his gut instincts working on touch alone. It doesn't take a genius to work out how the pain is resonating through his entire body, wrenching each muscle into spasm as his arm is lifted to make way for the splint.

Between them, Jack and Alfie lift him into the back of the truck and lie him on his back For the first time I see his face in the wake of their brutality. His right eye is nearly closed, soft puffy flesh giving coverage to the socket and jutting out from his cheek.

His chest has blood on it too, although I suspect that once more it is from the baseball bat. I have no doubt that he suffered blows to the ribs, it is the most common target and if I were a betting man I would put money on the broken arm being caused in this way. From the angle of the break, he probably raised his arm to protect himself against the swing of the bat. Its no comfort to him, but if he'd taken such a severe blow to the ribs he would be in a worse state now. I thank a God that I do not believe in for small mercies.

When we arrive back at my place, they carry him up the stairs and lay him on my bed. His spreadeagled form on my sheets is a vision that haunts me. It fuels me with a need to protect him from this world, from all that is evil in my life. But I know that it can't happen. As I hear Jack and Alfie drive off, I stand at the foot of the bed and drink in the smell. Mulders smell. I have missed it, missed him, for too long now, and right now I don't want to know about how he ended up here. He needs medical attention quickly.

Nascosto might be out of the way, but those that live here are consumate professionals in all that they do. To a stranger the man in the barn fifty yards away might seem like a farmer who doubles as his own vet. The implementation of genetic experiments & research of cloning technology requires a field expert. Seymour also doubles as the doctor and emergency dentist to all 75 people that live here. His training is extensive and broad, if it's anything medical or biological in origin or need, then he's your man. I buzz Seymour and he's here within minutes. Maybe less.

As he gives a cursory visual examination of Mulder, I go into the office and conference online with my superiors. You wouldn't recognise any of them now. I'm not sure that I would really. Not knowing has its advantages.

They are sympathetic to my cause. I have to plead my case to them on the grounds of Mulder being too important, even in his defrocked state, to waste. They know from his past that if he were dealt with in the normal manner, he would return here once more. That is a risk that they are not willing to take, and I convince them that I will be able to pacify his intrigue.

For me it is a personal state of humiliation that I now face, having armed them with the truth about my history with Mulder. For me it is irrelevant whether they approve. I've hardly been the one to have such sensitivities - it is more about the fact that they know a little more about me. I prefer to keep some things distant and this just happened to be one of those intimacies that I cherished. But given the options, I had little choice in justifying my reasons for wanting to keep him here. It was a hard truth to tell, but it was my only chance of keeping him.

When I return to the bedroom Seymour glances up. "His arm's a mess Alex, it's going to need pinning back together."

I nod. Mulder's going to be mad. That's his wanking hand. A brief smile crosses my face at the thought of what my nursing duties will involve.

"The face is all superficial, you can clean that up yourself. He has a couple of broken ribs but they haven't gone into the organs, they'll heal with rest. Other than that, it's just bruising - but there's a lot of that." Seymour pulls the sheet back and for the first time I see the extent of the damage on his ribs. Individual patches of tender skin punctuated by purple and black work their way around his middle. In places, the bruises merge into obscure formations that resemble wispy clouds. I lift my hand and stroke his skin but he doesn't move.

"I've knocked him out. He was in a lot of pain, and shock. It's just better this way. He'll be out cold until the morning. I'll come back and give him something else then. In the meantime, can you give me some space? I need to set his arm or at least get it back to how it should look."

"I thought you said it needs pinning?" I ask. I'm conscious that my enquiry gives the impression that Seymour is not doing his job properly.

"It does, Alex, but that'll have to wait a few days. He'll be fine with it in a cast until then. I'll need to get supplies in to do that. I figure if you've got clearance to keep him here - you don't have permission to take him to a hospital?"

I shake my head. It was a condition attached to their agreement. If he goes to a hospital, questions will be asked. It's not ideal but I can live with it. Although I'm not sure he's going to see it that way when he comes round tomorrow. But then waking to the sight of me could just preoccupy his thoughts.

When Seymour leaves, I perch on the side of the bed and stroke my hand through Mulder's dark locks. He looks so insecure, yet peaceful. A frail body blending with the strength of beauty and voluptuous smell that is Mulder. Sweet and needing, powerful yet conceding to my attentions all at once. No one else will do.

I use damp cotton wool to clean his face, leaning over him - a guardian angel or a fallen angel, I'm not sure which. The blood has dried in places but I keep my touch as light as possible, dabbing at it repeatedly until each remnant has gone.

A tear dries on his face, a remnant from the pain of movement. I lean forward and allow my tongue to caress his cheek, to trace the contour of his jaw with a slow succulent touch that stirs my cock with its simplicity. The tear is gone, but not before I realise that it was mine.

Maybe I have changed since coming here. Maybe it's Mulder's absence that has voided me of my impetuous streak. Maybe I just can't believe that he's here before me and in my bed again. Not quite the vision of my dreams, but the flesh is real and that's what counts. The rest will come in time.

 

* * *

 

Title - Nascosto by lush virtues  
Status - Series / WIP  
Rating - R  
Disclaimer - CC etc.  
Warnings - None really.  
Archive - of course just let me know where.  
Feedback -   
Spoilers - everything I guess. This is post Existence.  
Notes - Thanks to: Bertina, my tireless beta for putting things where they belong. One day I'll learn. To Ian, needs no explanation. To Adam, he knows why <g>. And distant thanks to Muse, for feeding me through this. This one's for Katharine. Words are sometimes not enough.  
Summary - Still in that remote town, Mulder finds himself in the bed of a man he thought had long since departed.  
Previous Chapters & other fic at http://www.akalush.net/

* * *

Chapter Two

When I wake, it is with a shock and a startled look around my bedroom. The dimmed lights add warmth to the room. Propped against the bed, I look down, realising I have fallen asleep fully clothed and, behind me; Mulder is still out for the count. The clock says six but my body has had enough of sleeping for now, I need to be with him. Need to be there when he opens his eyes.

He looks so peaceful, so gracious and at rest. A world away from the frail broken man of yesterday. With the sheets pulled up to his neck the only visible signs of events are his swollen black eye and his lips. Such perfect smooth flesh split and torn apart.

I am not entirely sure whether he was conscious when I walked into the bar. He seemed to drift between a comatose state and partial awareness. Awareness of pain at least. If he'd overheard the conversations despite his immobile state, he would have opened his eye. I'd like to think there would have been some recognition. He always welcomed my soft tones, sweet whispers for his ears only. When in close proximity he is tuned to the subtle distinction of my breathing. Inches apart, it slips into more heavy infrequent patterns. He knows them well.

Coffee is brewed; at least he will wake to the welcoming aroma and know that he is in a safe, friendly location. There's no need for anything other than for him to feel safe at the moment.

I wait, perched on the side of the bed for the moment, when those eyes open and devour me once more. He doesn't need to speak to fill me with contentment, to call to me.

Today, and for the next week or so, I am tasked with logging surveillance work and translating. It means that I will be working mainly from home for the next few days. Odd conferencing when projects cross over but nothing too time consuming, I don't have any work that will lead me outside of these walls for a couple of weeks. No manual break until next month.

Manual tasks in Nascosto are always shared around. We all take turns to be barman or shopkeeper once in a while. It may sound weird, but it's nice to get a job where I don't have to think too much. After all that I've done, it's kind of humbling to help people pick their shopping out. It might sound odd, with the training and experience we all have, but to get outsiders in would be catastrophic and besides; I am not sure they would understand the necessity of silence. People here understand meniality more than outsiders understand silence.

I sit next to Mulder on the bed, with his hand cradled in my own, my fingers splayed and wrapped around his. A touching of flesh that I hold dear until he stirs. When he does so, it is with small movements. The legs adjust then his hand pulls back from mine and he pulls at the sheets, rearranging them.

His head flits from side to side. A movement of uncertainty as pain creases across his face with his attempts to shift his broken body. The cast Seymour made is loose and coarse - the reparations to his skin still swollen and bound. The medical opinion was to keep him bedridden until the arm is pinned, avoiding crepitation. He could pass out again if he moves too much. It makes me flinch just thinking of the loose bone ends grinding together.

I know that the hospitalisation following his return was a traumatic experience for Scully. It must have been. Their relationship had developed to an intense level and I think that only she would ever understand how I feel as I sit here. Waiting for his eyes to open, hoping for a smile. For recognition. For something. Scully and I are alike in so many ways but I don't think she'll ever understand that. I don't think she'll ever know.

When he wakes, it is with a slow rising of the eyelids and a squint at the light in the room. As he moves, he a lets a groan out, a throaty discomfort from deep within. Sleepy hazel eyes adjust to the light and his head turns to me. They focus gradually, but as recognition crosses his face, his one good eye bolts open and fixes on me. He pulls his hand away even though there is no longer contact and retreats as far as his body will allow. The movements are minor but I notice the nuances. I always have. And he stares. He just lies there and stares.

I try to smile, to comfort him with a reassuring hand but he recoils, my smile is not enough. It is more heartfelt and honest than I ever recall, but it is still not enough to comfort him.

"Mulder," I whisper calmly. "It's OK. You're OK"

He inclines his head to one side but the eye does not shift.

"Don't tell me," he croaks. "I went to Hell".

I allow myself a touching laugh but he does not match it. His face does not move.

"You're not in Hell, Mulder." A pause fills the gap between us. "You're not even dead."

He tries to lift himself a little, pressing down on his good arm to lever himself up but the grimace that crosses his face tells that even such small movements cause pain.

I try to rest my hand on his again but he pulls away, fearful of my touch. Fearful of me. In a life before this, my touch was always enough and we never allowed words to get in the way. I liked that about him. I still do. I've never been big on speeches or explanations and he never seemed to think they were necessary. Our lives survived on sparse conversation. More a relationship of feelings expressed in actions.

I don't think I've changed in that respect but I don't know about Mulder. It's been a long time and so much water has passed under the bridge. The physical pain of the torture when he was abducted may have changed his perspective. I worry that it has.

I don't come across as the sort to worry; I know a lot of people wouldn't understand that side of me. They would never comprehend how I could kill and deceive without pausing for thought, yet on the other hand be so sensual, so desperate just to be held without words. For me it's a case of priorities. I never saw the consortium work as anything other than necessity for survival. If I hadn't acted with selfish intent, I would have died long ago.

There was a time when I believed that what I was doing was right, that it was for the good of the whole. I think that belief slipped gradually because I certainly don't recall one moment when it changed. It just got to the stage where it didn't feel right anymore. The only thing that ever really mattered was the part of my life I chose. It mattered that I could give myself freely to Mulder. It mattered to me that no one knew. But even that's history now. Everyone has their secrets. My covert life was like everybody else's dark side, my secrets akin to their normality. Arse about face, but it worked for me, so I stuck with it.

"And you?" he asks in a flat tone. A dull beat passes between us.

"No, I'm not dead either." I respond, still smirking. I can't help myself. His words bring a smile to me, contentment.

He raises his hand to my face and allows his thumb to stroke from my hairline, with the barest of contact, down my forehead to the bridge of my nose. I shut my eyelids as the soft flesh lingers there, and swallow air. There, the slightest of touches after all this time, sends shivers down my spine. Warmth permeates my entire body where I sit immobile.

"It wasn't me, Mulder." His hand wanders, tracing contours, feeling flesh. The back of his hand brushes down my cheek.

"Then who was it?" he asks.

"It's a long story." And it is. But I'm not sure he is ready for it just yet. Way too much for him to think about. His brain will race, questions will be asked and it's questions that got him where he is right now. It can wait. I don't give him the opportunity to push it further.

"Do you know where you are?" I ask.

He purses his lips. He just looks so lost. So needy.

"It wasn't marked on the map." His response is matter of fact, almost sarcastic. But it explains a lot to me. If it was on any map he would never have come here. He would never have stopped to ask questions.

His hand drops onto the bed and, as it does, he attempts to lift his head once more. Instinctively, I place a palm across his chest. His stomach muscles contract as he tries to lift himself up a little and he winces, offering little resistance against my hand. He closes his eyes once more and the sheer relaxation that overcomes his body, as his heads hits back against the pillow, is evidence of defeat.

"Mulder, do you have any idea what happened to you?"

"I was in a bar, asking the barman some questions and he...then..." His voice trails off as he mentally retraces events.

He touches at his eye with his fingertips. The swelling has reduced the visual severity but the eye is still nearly closed. When he touches it, he shrinks back inside himself. His other eye is screwed and twisted back into the socket.

"Your arm's broken. It's pretty bad." He opens his eyes and looks down at it. "There's a doctor here that patched it up, but he's going to need to do some surgery to pin it as well."

He nods. He doesn't pass comment or interrupt but lets me continue. He looks gaunt and weak, as if the effort to converse is beyond him.

"The Doctor's going to come over first thing and give you some more painkillers."

He swallows, taking it in as I continue.

"Broken ribs, bruising, but other than that, you're OK."

His eyes close again and his hand pulls at the sheets, readjusting them over his body.

"I thought you were dead, Alex." His voice is strained, pained.

"I know. I'm sorry." And I am. When I found out he was alive, no thought filled me more than leaving Nascosto and running. Taking up and off with the sole intention of finding him. Of getting there by any means possible. But like I said, I've changed. The old Alex would have done, but I knew that such action would put me straight back to square one with a price on my head. Back to running. I want that side of me gone.

You see, you don't leave this place. Everyone here is in for the long haul. A minimum two years at least. Most people here have got warrants outstanding or prices on their heads. Most choose to extend the two years. The seclusion is embraced as a way to forget the past.

Two years seemed reasonable to me at the time. Long enough to take a step back and work out what to do with my life. To leave the necessity of violence behind. But when Mulder turned up yesterday, it became a noose. A chaffing one.

"I don't think I've ever heard you say sorry." We sit out the beat in silence. "Are you sorry because you're alive, or because this is just another piece in your jigsaw of deceit?"

"No. I..." I'm lost for words. I thought I was his saviour, his rescuer but I'm not. By saving him I have imprisoned him. "No. I'm sorry because..." and I find that I don't really know why I'm sorry.

Sorry for the pain, for the suffering. Sorry that I never made it to see him in hospital. Maybe just sorry for myself, because I thought that the first movements he made would be the flashing of a smile like the old days. I'm sorry for so many things but am unable to articulate any right now. I just want him to be as happy as I am.

His turns his head to look at the ceiling, to divert his gaze from me, and for the first time it crosses my mind that he is pissed off with me.

"Mulder." A deep breath, a sigh. "I'm sorry for a lot of things. I just don't think any of them are important at the moment."

I stroke at his hand and he allows me to take it this time. I cover it with my own and lift it to my face, planting the tenderest of kisses on the back.

"You are in a place called Nascosto. I came here after you were abducted. It's one of the Consortium's remote communities. I work here, I live here."

His one good eye rolls skywards at the mention of the Consortium. Somehow, I knew that it would. It was the chasm in our lives that we never managed to navigate. We agreed to differ. Hindsight is such a wonderful tool and I wished for months that I had listened to Mulder. He pleaded his case for me to be shot of them. I didn't listen though. Just the one thing he asked of me and I let him down.

"No, listen Mulder. It's not what you think."

"So tell me, Alex. What is it?" I look to his face, to his eyes. To his teeth clenched firmly together as they were when we parted company in a stand off that ultimately signaled the end of our relationship. I see all these things again now, and I'm unable to look him in the eye. My gaze drifts downwards as I recall.

"Cancerman was the one who fed me the information on the crash site, you know that." He doesn't nod. "Somehow he knew I would come to you, it's what he wanted. He knew that you would not be able to resist a foray into those woods. I played right into his hands. I was just too caught up with the opportunity to see you again that I didn't realise what was going on until it was too late."

I pause and take stock. I haven't talked about it before and it's difficult to admit failings. But I have plenty of sins requiring absolution. I want Mulder to be the one to grant me reprieve from the guilt but he is still and unemotional.

"When they took you, I went to see Cancerman with Marita."

He looks over; the first sign of intrigue crosses his face. I don't meet him, but keep my head down. I feel each movement, each look. I don't need to see it.

"I went to see Cancerman and I killed him." His eyes dart up.

"He was the last of the old school, Mulder. There were new boys in town and it just happens that I did them a favour. So they offered me this place and I accepted. You were gone, I had nothing to hang around DC for."

He seems taken aback by what I have said, the merest of smiles cracking across his face. To me, it feels like a weight has been lifted, a burden that I have carried with me has gone. That this one man could do that instills warmth in me and reaffirms my reasons for wanting to save him.

I play with his hand, tenderly massaging his fingers with my own as I talk.

"I know it's no consolation, but I thought you were dead too." I pause, allowing myself to slip into reverie. Recounting the months spent hoping he would be returned, only to find that when he was, it was as a dead man.

"Do you have any idea how it felt not being able to go to your funeral?"

He looks up at me, a soulful look that feels like it has been shaped and carved for me. Me alone. It is his turn to provide the reassurance now as he grips my hand.

"No." His voice is now tranquil, faint, almost apologetic. "No, I don't."

"I spent three months hoping you would be returned, Mulder, praying that you would be. But when it happened, it was all wrong. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen, and I never got the chance to say goodbye."

I swallow hard. Things have changed between us already. We've never had this much conversation all at once and certainly never got emotional with each other before. He seems to sense that it is difficult for me to articulate these things. His grip on my hand tightens a little and he tugs at it, willing me to look up and meet his gaze.

"Alex, its OK. I'm here now. It doesn't matter."

I know his words are meant to pacify, to demonstrate understanding. And deep down, I know he does understand. I think he is the only one that can. The opportunity to grieve for Samantha never came to him and that is the one true regret in his life, that much I know. He understands that sometimes we just need to say goodbye in formal surroundings, a public display. An opportunity to close the book.

The mind never lets go. Each day, snippets of the best times are recalled and the grief gives way to a smile. You regret the worst times but know that even they were an integral part of the relationship. I have spent a fair time musing over those but know that Mulder and I may not have gotten together without those bad times. So when I say he is the only one that can understand what it felt like to be unable to close that book, I know that my words are true. That he is the only one.

I gather myself together, unable to discuss it further, and stand up. His hand is still embraced in my own, and I lift it to mine, holding it close to my lips.

"Mulder, I'm going to call the doctor. You must need some painkillers." He smiles faintly and nods. "I can't give you anything to eat until he's been to see you but I'll get you some water if you like?"

"Please."

It's going to be a long road getting him back on his feet in these surroundings. He was restless and I think that's why it worked before. Soulmates on the run, meeting up when our paths crossed in passioned embraces. I'm not really sure that it will work here within the solitude and confines of Nascosto, but I have to try. I owe him that, at least.

As I walk towards the door, I feel him watching my every move, each step.

"Alex." His voice stops me in my tracks and I turn. "At least we both have only one arm now. Well for the time being, anyway." And the smile that crosses his face reassures me. It is a devious dirty smile, echoing thoughts that only I would understand from this man. That smile is for me.

"Yeah." I smile back, head down looking up at him with my most flirtatious grin. "But I've had a head start on you there, Mulder."

As I leave the room, an euphoric feeling wells up inside of me. One that only he would understand, and that only he could elicit.

Cont'd in Chapter 3.

           

http://www.akalush.net/

 

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Title - Nascosto by lush virtues  
Status - Series / WIP  
Rating - R  
Disclaimer - CC etc.  
Warnings - None really.  
Archive - of course just let me know where.  
Feedback -   
Spoilers - everything I guess. This is post Existence.  
Notes - Thanks to: Bertina, my tireless beta for putting things where they belong, and spotting the obvious. One day I'll learn. To Ian, needs no explanation. To Adam, he knows why <g>. And distant thanks to Muse, for feeding me through this. This one's for Katharine. Words are sometimes not enough.  
Summary - Mulder makes it out of bed. Slowly does it.  
Previous Chapters & other fic at http://www.akalush.net/

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Chapter Three

It is early evening. Mulder has slept for most of the day in peace, despite his injuries. The strain on his body overcoming his body clock. The King size bed provides ample room for me to crawl in and lay by his side. He doesn't even wake with my movements.

I lie still; eyes wide open in the evening glow and watch him. Our closeness drowns me in contentment. I examine each visible inch of him and realise that I have never really studied him. Not like this. Not in this way. I lie for hours recounting each time we met, be it strained or passionate. It never seemed to be inbetween. And as I drift, dusk turns to darkness, then to nothing.

               

On waking, I am closer to Mulder than last night. The warmth of his thigh presses against my groin and holds me. The touch of his body and the sweet familiar smell that eluded me for so long is sufficient on its own to keep me appeased.

It was always only ever about the sex before. The detachment. The freedom. For both of us. Now I find that I've done too much thinking and I need more than this. My mind is begging for so much more now and doubts edge into my take on the situation. My glass is half empty once more.

He wakes shortly after me but does not try to move as he did yesterday. He tilts his head towards me and greets me with a soft smile and lazy eyes.

It is the first time we have ever slept together, I mean properly. Slept. No flirting, no frills, no sex. We used to hang around briefly after the sex but neither of us was willing to spoil it by trying to make it anything more. My lifestyle would have brought danger to his door, when he was perfectly capable of inviting it himself. A public truth would have finished him.

Dark liaisons, secret meetings - we were both there for the same reason and never had false expectations. We just knew that anything other than physical gratification would not work. And yet we lie side by side and comfort each other by simple presence, without any physical prelude. And it doesn't detract from my happiness.

I want to cherish the time we lay together. In some ways, it is overwhelming. He knows nothing of this place yet, of what he has unwittingly walked into and today I must visit the site manager to discuss Mulder, his arrival here, his future. He has become my responsibility. My liability.

                

I rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom without looking back. When I return, he watches me across the room, eyes fixed. Serious and dark as though my absence from his side cuts deep. At least I hope that's what it is. His eyes follow my naked form and, for the most part, I stay with his gaze and meet it with my own, spurred on by the attention, the intrigue, and the need. He watches intently as I dress and leave the room to make us both coffee. When I return, he has managed to drag himself up against the headboard to a half sitting position.

Nearly two days have passed since he arrived in town and, lifting the sheets, I see that the bruises on his chest have started to turn. Sitting next to him, I place my hand around his head, cradling one side of his skull with my fingers. I hold my thumb against his cheek, a print to his skin.

"I have to go out this morning. Are you going to be OK here?"

He smiles reassuringly and I realise I'm mothering him needlessly. I have never mothered anything in my life before now. Not an animal, let alone a person. I think back, trying to place the events in my life that brought the change. The places I've been, the faces I've seen. Their impact means little at this point in time, and I realise that the causal effect of the change rests in the palm of my hand.

"Alex, when are you going to tell me what's going on here?" He sighs.

He's waited for a moment when we are locked together, a chance to catch me breathless and weak. He brings his hand up and places it over mine.

"In what way?" Ignorance is feigned for just one moment. A brief glimpse of my past. I know he has to be told, but with knowledge comes complexity. He is so simple in his needs at this point in time, and I don't want to be the one to feed him with information that will only disillusion and pain him more. I just want him to be in my bed, smiling at me. Needing me as much as I need him.

"What happened to you, Alex?" It's kind of nice that he's noticed. I'm far more insular now, I know I am. It's been part of my life here and its just how I wanted it. It has given me the chance to go forward; well it had, until the day before yesterday. No one here knew me with any personal attachment and I've never felt the need to make new friends.

I raise my eyebrows and question him without words.

"I mean, what really happened Alex?" He pauses. "To you." Silence resounds.

We have avoided this so far. Part of me wants to open arms and embrace him, but then he has not enjoyed the luxury of thought that I have. This me is all new to him. I want to bear my soul, but words once spoken can not be retracted, and I struggle to find the right way to tell him. To find a way that emphasises his importance in my life without it reeking of patronisation. Without scaring him the hell out of my life.

I swallow air and feel my chest tighten, or is it my stomach knot? It's all happening at once as our eyes stay locked and I give in to anything I once was.

"I thought I had lost you, Mulder." There is not a flicker across his face. The smug insolent laugh I expected does not come. Instead, he tightens his grip on my hand. Reassurance that he understands? I'm not sure it is anything so obvious, so simple.

"That's it?" he asks.

I'm embarrassed by my own honesty, by my willingness to give myself over and open myself up. If he is surprised or shocked, he doesn't show it nor let me see it.

I nod, unable to elaborate further and unwilling to give in to my need to tell him more. I am in danger of smothering him with each single thought that has plagued my waking hours. I need for him to know, but don't want him to bolt from here, from my life.

"Look, can we talk about this later?" I half mumble, loosening my grip, trying to pull my hand away from him. He nods and holds onto my hand, electricity building with the touch as he mouths a word.

"Thanks."

"For what?" I ask.

"For what you've done. Does my being here cause you problems?"

And he gently allows me to slip away from him, a reticent smile lingers as our fingertips part.

"It's not a problem. It's fine." I lean over and push his hair away from his brow and plant a kiss on his forehead. It feels so whole to give so much to him, and yet I'm pained by what I want in return. What I need from him to keep my sanity. I leave him propped up, with a pot of coffee and the promise of some reading material later.

"I know you slept most of yesterday but you need to rest, Mulder. I'll look up Seymour on the way back to see if he's got what he needs to fix your arm yet." My voice retains the gentle undertones despite slipping back into normal conversation.

"Thanks." The word hits me again. Could he really be thankful? Imprisoned in this town, and with me? "I mean it Alex."

But that is only because he doesn't really know where he is.

I leave him with a smile and with space to sit back and think. Room to manoeuvre those doubts, those inquisitions. Time for him to take in what very little I have allowed to slip. The words few, their implication immense.

               

I call in to see Seymour on the way into town. He is a neighbour, I guess, living in the main building on this farm. I've just never allowed myself to be neighbourly. I knock before going in. We never lock our homes here; what would be the point? Anyone here could pick any lock; the cameras pick up everything. Besides, I have nothing of value. A life spent running, evading, traveling light. I arrived with nothing and will leave the same way.

"Seymour." I call out as I go in, and he beckons me to the kitchen where he is sat at the table.

"Coffee, Alex?"

"No thanks. Just had one."

"How's your friend?" he asks.

"OK. Looks better than yesterday. The bruises have started to turn on his chest, his eye's going down too, but I think the arm is still killing him." Mulder won't say as much but he winces too often and I find myself wincing with him. It's almost as if our shared expressions will lighten the pain somehow. "I came to see if you'd heard anything."

"Tomorrow. Fed Ex is delivering to the PO box, and there's a farming supplies pick up scheduled, so I was going to ask them to collect. Should be OK to do it tomorrow night."

I nod. The post office box is in the next town along. It's hardly ever used, so none of the locals there ask questions. I don't think they even notice, to be honest. None of us look out of place when we visit. Anonymous faces blending into the crowd.

I leave Seymour and walk into town along the track. I couldn't leave Mulder yesterday to pick the truck up. I just needed to be there. Even if it was only to watch him sleep.

The day is warm; the light wind provides relief from the humidity. It's good to be in the open, alone and away from the city. I was always a city person before; the bustle, the noise. The sweet smell of diesel in the lungs and the ability to disappear into the crowd. That was me all over. Now I find beauty in all that I see here. The leaves on the trees as they grow then fall to the ground when their season is over. Nature is so understated; it's beauty and complexity outstanding. I never noticed the intrinsic relationships that evolve and sustain life. And I think that what I was, is no different to the top end of the food chain out here, and that's helped me to understand where I fitted in. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. There's always someone ready to fill each void.

              

When I arrive in town, there is little going on. As ever. I knock at the door to Taylor's house and go in, finding him in the living room. Taylor is one of the few here that I had met prior to arrival, although only briefly. He is a short, squat man. When he speaks, his words fill the room with simple consistent words. Fear is instilled in the novice whilst the veterans take note of what is said. He commands without effort.

He motions to me to sit opposite him and I accept as he pours coffee.

"So, Krycek. How's the patient?" His look is not without concern, probably more for the fact that a death would have brought investigation. An ex FBI agent with connections would not disappear without a trace as others do. Taylor knows it was close, though he doesn't say as much.

"He's got a lot of bruising. Seymour's going to do some surgery on his arm tomorrow. Other than that, he'll be OK, just needs to rest." I take a sip at the coffee he's pushed across the table, watching him across the rim of the mug.

"Good, so what sort of timescale are we talking about before he's up and about?"

"I don't know, a week, two?" I try not to give much away, my veil doesn't slip often. We are here to discuss options and there aren't that many. My hand remains close to my chest.

"So, do you know how he found this place?"

'Was he looking for you?' is the question I think he wants to ask, but nothing is ever straight. Avoid the obvious. That's the way it works.

"No, I haven't spoken to him about that yet. He slept most of yesterday." He wasn't looking for me, that much I do know, and there seems little point in concealing it. "And, no...he wasn't looking for me. He thought I was dead."

Taylor smirks a little. His manner is calming, comforting. He doesn't give the air of someone so high in the chain of command. He almost goes out of his way to understate his position at times like this.

"Ah yes, of course." He nods. "Have you told him about the replacements yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Then you two have a lot of catching up to do."

I force a smile and wonder whether his definition of catching up is anywhere near to mine. No, probably not, but then he isn't me, and this is Mulder we are talking about.

"But, Krycek..." He frowns. "What we need to discuss are the implications of him being here."

"Yes." I respond with a heavy sigh. Taylor needs to know I am serious, that anything he has learnt, about Mulder's and my past, is not going to interfere.

He continues with words delivered in good faith, not unlike a reassuring teacher.

"I know I was unavailable when all of this happened, and you did the right thing. It can't have been easy going to the board with it, but I think you will get respect for the fact that you did. There are still doubters, Krycek. There always will be. But, that said, his being here could create a long term problem. Tell me, have you thought about what will happen when he's recovered?"

I move my coffee around the table, watching it swirl. My head stays down but I look up to him. I have thought about it since yesterday. In the bar, though, only thoughts of taking care of him crossed my mind. I shift in my seat.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And...I don't know. But I have thought about it."

"Well, the only choice he has is to stay with you here, Alex. You know that, don't you?" Taylor is the only one here who uses both names, alternating each to command or feign care. A show of strength or a momentary lapse into the humane realm. It's the first time I've seen the latter.

I nod in affirmation, for his benefit more than mine, because I've been working on options.

"He can't just leave after what's happened. And I think you know what would happen if he tried to, Alex." And there lies the problem. When you're in, it is a commitment they do not expect you to falter on. Some things change, others don't. These people don't make hollow threats, it doesn't work like that.

I nod again, and muse through the silence that follows.

"But," he comes back after a minute or so, "with his background, you might find that they will give him a job here. Something to tempt him from straying."

I lift my head in surprise, an option that had not occurred to me. My vision restricted by escape or simply making Mulder a kept man. A bored, kept man. A new twist is added to the web in my mind and I find myself toying with it, throwing it around.

"Look, you've got a lot to think about, and time to think about it. But one thing is clear, Krycek, this is now in your hands to resolve. I don't want him causing problems, if he does, then it falls on both of you." The compassionate look has changed to a chilling set of eyes that pierce me. And I know that he means what he says. My blissful transformation of the last few months is starting to fade, and I feel like I'm back where I was. Forever in debt. Owned but unloved. Convenient but expendable.

When I return, Mulder is asleep again. I place a palm on his forehead, his temperature has dropped off since yesterday. Seymour had been worried about infection setting in on the arm, but the signs are good so far. He doesn't wake with my touch, but moves awkwardly around the bed, and settles down once more.

It is the afternoon before he stirs, nothing less than a perceptive ear would have noticed. But I do, and take him some fresh water and sit by his side.

"Hey." I smile and brush my hand down his cheek as he opens his eyes. Colour returns to his cheeks in the wake of my touch.

"What time is it?" His voice is still sleepy, a murmur accompanied with a faint smile. His lip is healing over, but each time he smiles, it opens a little. I go to the bathroom and return with a tub of Vaseline. He looks at the tub, and smiles some more.

"Hey, I don't think I'm up to that yet, Alex"

The morning meeting is now far from my mind, and I respond with a grin. With Vaseline coating my index finger I trace along his lower lip, hovering to press in where the wounds have opened. He parts his lips and looks at me, our eyes locked. A serene moment that makes me forget where we are and who might be watching. He doesn't know about the cameras. I will tell him soon, I resolved to discuss it with him today. And I will. But for now the moment is to savour, to enjoy. The world outside is theirs, this touch is ours.

The silence between us needs no explanation. Mulder allows me to caress his lips and, all the while, soulful eyes watch my face as my finger follows the contours.

"How did you get the lip and the eye?" I draw my hand away momentarily to allow him to speak.

"When the guy came at me with the baseball bat, I started to back away. As I turned to the door, I walked into a couple of punches. I didn't know there was someone behind me. Why, does it look bad?"

"Not as bad as it did." I smile and continue on the lips.

"I really need to use the bathroom, Alex, do you think you could help me up?"

"You sure?"

He nods. I admire his strength, determination, and resilience. Or is it stupidity? I stand by the bed and lean over, positioning my arm under his and around his back. The plastic arm is of little use around the house and I rarely leave it on. Continual wear just causes chaffing, so I to take it off whenever I am home. Lifting him gently, my balance is skewed without the weight of the prosthetic but he helps as much he can, wrapping his arm around my neck.

He holds me to steady himself, uneasy on his feet and we take a slow walk. With my arm around his waist, we saunter along. Together, we are the embodiment of impaired men. The thought forces a smile, knowing what we have been through, wondering how we ever ended up like this.

I leave fresh underwear for him on the bed, for an extra touch, I make sure it's my favourite silk. When he comes out of the bathroom, he stands by the bed, and allows me to kneel and pull the silk boxers up his legs. As I do, I allow myself the luxury of losing my nose in his groin, sucking air in through flared nostrils whilst his one good hand grasps at my hair. It's the little things like this that I enjoy most, but despite my most tender touch, he is not ready for this yet. He needs to rest, and even labored breathing will place strain on his ribs.

"So come on, Alex, tell me."

"About what?"

"You said we would talk later. Later is now." He hasn't asked much of me since yesterday. He seems content to accept that I was looking out for him, that only his interests were foremost to me. The truth is not a million miles away from this, although it is somewhat tinged with any needs that I had. He never found the trust aspect easy and the thought that this might have changed instills a sense of belonging in me. A sense of need that I feel myself feeding off.

As we walked across the room, I drew a deep breath when the bruising on the back of his legs became visible. There were no abrasions, nor breaks of the skin - just the formations of patterns, which now resemble an artists mixing palette. As we talk, he leans against the wall; the prospect of lying on his chest is too much at the moment. I rub Arnica gel into his skin, taking time to smooth it in with a delicate hand.

It gives me the chance to talk to him, without watching his reactions. His body movements are more responsive to my touch than to my words. A form of compromise that makes opening myself up just a little easier.

"I was asking what has happened to you, Alex. I mean, where did the urgency and need go?" He prompts me, thinking that maybe I have lost the link to this morning's conversation.

"I got fed up with running. When you disappeared, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. Everything in my life was a lie. Even you. Each person I came into contact with got hurt, one way or another. I got sick of the deceit, of running from everything. I needed normality."

"And here is normality?" he asks, turning his head to one side and looking back towards me.

"No, this isn't normality. It's just the first step. Since coming here, I've just calmed down, that's all. Mulder, this place is peaceful, tranquil, in comparison to the way I've lived my life these last few years. I don't need to look over my shoulder. There are no assassinations here. Just mundane Consortium work that has allowed me time to think, and since I arrived here, I have done nothing but think. I've calmed down, that's all. I'm just trying to put my life into perspective."

"And what exactly is this place? You never really said." His head is rested on his good arm now, the other one hangs by his side.

"The hub of their work. All the surveillance, tracking, monitoring goes on here. That, and a fair amount of experimentation, the biological stuff. R&D they call it, but personally, I think that's a rather nice way of putting it."

"So, how comes I was attacked?"

"You asked too many questions."

He laughs, that all too familiar snigger that he has perfected. It combines his 'what me?' look of surprise with the disbelief of my answer.

"Mulder, you are lucky to be alive. If they hadn't recognised you, it would have been a bullet to the back of the skull. They don't mess around here, and they don't take chances with people walking in, shooting their mouths off."

"You call this lucky? " He sniggers again, and I stand beside him, lightly massaging his back and sides with gel where the bruises are most prominent.

"I know. It might not feel like it right now, but believe me, you were lucky."

"OK, maybe. But one thing I still don't understand - you said you came here just after I disappeared, so how did you know that I thought you were dead?"

"Because we see everything from here. The whole town is the most technologically advanced place in the country. If something happens, we see it. If we don't see it, we hear about it very quickly."

"So, who was it that was shot, or should I be asking what was it?"

I stop rubbing his back, leaving my hand resting over his left kidney and take a moment to contemplate my answer. The weirdest feeling passes over me, because he knows already, and it's a case of deja vu. I've seen the footage from Skinner's office. I know what was said, how it was all so eloquently explained to him. And how true it all was.

"Replacements."

He sniggers again, disbelief in the sounds that come from his throat.

"You know what they were," I add, "he explained it to you."

"You explained it to me."

"And you didn't once get the sense that the me you saw was distant, nonchalant?"

"Maybe a bit."

"Well, Billy Miles was the first. Only they realised that the make up was OTT, they knew he was indestructible, long before he was pulled from the sea. So they kept going, refining, tuning. Until they reached the stage where the replacements were as near to their human counterparts as possible."

"But you're alive and you weren't abducted Alex. I don't get it."

"A DNA sample is all they need. The rest is just following textbook instructions. Part of the refinement was using DNA strands, not needing to abduct. That's why it's become urgent."

"And they had your DNA on file at The Bureau?"

"I don't know, Mulder. I guess. It was no surprise that the others in the Hoover building were Government, is it?"

His teeth tug at his lower lip, his head turns to the wall once more.

I continue to provide a little light relief on his back, and wonder where this information is going to lead him. He doesn't say much in response, its almost as if the information is coursing round that brain of his, stopping at intersections before deciding on its route. Sometimes the calculations and ponderences seem audible.

"So, how do you know that I am not a replacement, Alex?"

"They have a notch in the back of their neck. It was the first thing I looked for when I walked into the bar. Besides, I knew from the way you protected Scully that you weren't. And talking of which...please tell me that they don't know where you were heading?"

"Who, Scully and Skinner?"

"Yeah. The last thing we need is for them to head out here too."

"Scully knows the route I was on, I said I would call her every couple of days." A rescued Mulder is one thing to contend with, but the prospect of a heavy artillery follow up in search of him, dampens the soul.

"So, its no big deal. I'll call her and tell her I'm OK." His voice is matter of fact, assuming that there could never be a problem.

"You can't just call her, Mulder. Each communication here is subject to extremely close scrutiny. This is their flagship - the front-line. Calls can be traced. There aren't any phones. To be honest, most of us don't have anyone to call."

His silence troubles me, my words hang in the air, not an audible echo but there is a chill between us, a rift forming.

"So, just how do I get in touch with her, then?"

"You don't." My teeth grind as I rub the words into his flesh with each phonetic pronunciation. A rhythmic affirmation that leads to him pulling away from the wall and standing upright.

He walks alone to the bed, my outstretched hand passed by, one offer of help too many. The tensed muscles in his jaw ripple as he offers me his sternest look. Sussing me out, eyes focused on a man left standing with a job half finished.

"Alex, I need to speak to her. If I don't, she'll start worrying, she'll go to Skinner."

I leave the bedroom and go wash my hands, hoping somehow that the brief absence will dull the line of fire. But it doesn't. I should not have been so naïve to think that it would.

"Jeez, Alex. Just what sort of place have you got me holed up in here?" There is more feeling now, some emotional turbulence.

"I told you."

"You told me it is the most technologically advanced place in the country but you don't have phones, and the Doctor doesn't even have a surgery. Why didn't you just take me to the hospital?"

"I couldn't. I had to get permission for you to stay here, and that was part of the deal. If I had taken you to a hospital, questions would have been asked. It was never an option."

"Well, what were the options you overlooked then?"

"Mulder, it was this or the bullet."

For the first time in months my patience wavers as we stand without compromise. Just like the old days, together yet never quite there. All I'm looking for is a little gratitude, a little understanding, and for him to know that I had no choice.

"It was the only choice I had."

I brush past him and go through to the lounge; the thought of stretching this further is not where I want to be heading right now. And I find myself thinking that it's always been the same. I might have changed and mellowed but maybe we are just inextricably linked in a relationship that can never flourish or be anything other than what it was. Some things are just meant to be. A cigar is, after all, sometimes just a cigar.

The last 48 hours have taken their toll on my ability to see anything with clarity, my vision blurred by his renewed presence in my life, and a future at loggerheads is the last thing we need.

The TV provides little distraction as channel surfing becomes monotonous. So many channels still so much crap. The remote clicks again and again as my finger sticks to the buttons. And then he's there, standing in front of the set blocking my view, my gaze so far gone that I did not notice his jagged movements.

Even in it's battered state, his flesh is intoxicating, invigorating, and I drink in the view and wrap a smirk amidst a sigh.

"What is so funny?" he asks, apparently hurt by my amusement.

"Funny? Nothing is funny. I'm just admiring, enjoying having you here. I've just missed you and I'm glad you're OK." The truth is out, in my own shallow way, and the bulge in my jeans is visible proof of just how quickly our altercation has slipped from my thoughts.

"Come on over." I stand and gesture to the sofa, inviting him to rest there. Slowly and methodically his legs move towards me, an unaided stumble of sorts, and he holds onto my arm, steadying himself as he sits.

Mulder never complains about the pain. It troubles me that such visible injuries do not warrant his attention, or maybe he's just become as tight mouthed as me. There is pain across his face as his legs make contact and support his weight, but he doesn't give an inch. A slight grimace, a feint groan, but nothing like the protestation there should be.

I lift his legs from the floor and pull them around, forcing him to lie on his back, all the while the distress in his eyes is hidden from me as he chooses to keep them closed. I delicately push hair from his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

"I'll find a way of getting in touch with Scully for you. I'll sort something out, don't worry."

There are other ways of doing things, and getting in touch with Scully will not be a problem. I just don't want him to know that the surveillance extends to each movement and word of every individual here.

His hand is entwined in my own, but it is limp, and there is no response to my promise. "Are you worried about Scully's baby?"

Again, no response, just a tear building at the corner of his eye, threatening to slide down his face. I wipe it away and kiss him again before leaving. Of course he's worried, but he won't say as much. He hides it, and lets it build up - it's not just the tears that threaten to slide, it's him as well. And, as I place a rug over him, he accepts it without comment, without opening up to me and allows himself to slip once more behind the wall that he has built.

               

http://www.akalush.net/

  
Archived: August 25, 2001 


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